Starlight Sonata
by pearypie
Summary: Modern AU. Four vignettes that explore the relationship of Kaiba and Kisara. Mainly domestic fluff (with a memory of Egypt thrown in).


**coffee**

The duvet is soft and comfortable, warmed by their body heat as Seto holds Kisara close, unwilling to let her go even in sleep. Her back is pressed against his chest and his breathing is soft and even against her neck. The sensation is all at once familiar and different with Seto's thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets beneath them and the faint pink light of dawn rising over the horizon. Kisara sleepily opens her eyes, blinking twice to adjust to the faint light of daybreak and snuggle closer to him, almost reluctant to wake up.

The clock reads 6 AM and Kisara knows Seto will be awake in exactly half an hour. Slowly, and with tender affection, Kisara does her best to slip out of Seto's arms even though it's the only place she ever wants to be. Cool white marble meets her bare feet and she lets out a soft gasp at the sudden sensation before clamping her hand to her mouth. In his past life, Priest Seto was a light sleeper who woke at the drop of a hat; centuries later, his current reincarnation is no different, even if he has to be coaxed out of his office and into bed every night.

Turning around, Kisara gently smooths the duvet back in place before realizing she's still completely naked and has wasted five minutes admiring the sleeping CEO. Blushing, Kisara grabs Seto's discarded dress shirt and puts it on before slipping out the room and jogging down the stairs. She is in the kitchen in record time, measuring coffee grinds and tucking a paper filter into the espresso machine that Mokuba got for Seto as a joke Christmas present.

"He never goes into the kitchen anyway." He explained after she'd picked him up from soccer practice. "I don't even think he knows where it is. He just expects food to appear when he's hungry—I mean, _if_ he ever gets hungry."

Since that day, Kisara has vowed to try and learn as many recipes as she could because her Seto deserves a home cooked meal every now and then. She decides to start simple—coffee, bacon, toast, and eggs—except her delicate hands are more fit for playing the piano or caressing the violet-blue petals of an iris blossom. She fumbles with the egg whisk and nearly drops the cast iron frying pan, wincing at the inhumanly loud sound when she finally manages to get it on the stovetop.

"What are you doing."

Kisara whirls around, eyes downcast and egg whisk in hand. "I…breakfast?" She finally offers, raising her head to witness Seto Kaiba in nothing but his pajama bottoms, smirk in place and arms crossed.

"Your type of breakfast is rather loud, don't you think?" He walks towards her, taking Kisara's hand. "And not the kind of loud I usually enjoy."

He says the statement is so blasé a tone that Kisara doesn't even have time to blush.

"And anyway," he takes the egg whisk from her, "we have a chef for these kinds of things."

"I'm amazed you managed to find your way here." She teases. "Mokuba was convinced you thought the kitchen a fictional place. A mirage—a phantom image."

"You've been watching too movies with him."

"Perhaps. But he has wonderful taste and is a very mature boy for his age." She taps Seto on the tip of his nose, her touch feather light. His eyes close for a moment before opening and Kisara is almost breathless because how can anyone's gaze be so _intense?_ It's a piercing cobalt blue stare that has her frozen in place, immobile in his arms, and wanting nothing more to remain this way for the next thousand years.

The light ring of the espresso machine jolts Kisara back and she blinks, a slow smile spreading across her face.

"I couldn't make you bacon and eggs," she admits, "but I did manage to make the coffee."

* * *

 **worry**

One of Kisara's favorite places to visit on slow summer days was the antique shop around the corner, just a twenty minute walk from the Kaiba mansion. The building is cobblestone, with a saltbox roof and old stained glass windows that give the entire place a charming sort of humility. A stone pathway divides a sea of green, green grass and newly sprouted daffodils and violets scent the air with delicate, floral sweetness.

Seto once insisted that Kisara take the car everywhere she went and assigned Felix as her personal chauffeur. But Felix was a father with two small children and Kisara enjoyed walking far more than the feeling of being stuck in Domino City traffic. And so she and Seto compromised in the sense that Kisara now had undercover bodyguards shadowing her every move while she pretended not to notice. It was sweet of him to worry but she was surprised by how thoroughly worry could translate into stalking.

"Seto, dear, I can't understand if all this," she gestured around herself, "is you worrying over my safety or you not trusting me to make practical decisions."

"I trust you." He says this automatically, as if it's the only truth he's ever known. "It's everyone else I'm suspicious of."

* * *

 **memory**

Many women have come to him dressed in fine silks and grotesque diamonds; heaps of satin alongside bundles of velvet. Some wore ostrich feathers the size of a small house and others chose fur coats large enough to cover two people. It was meant to showcase their wealth and status—how _powerful_ and _rich_ they were, how they were _good enough_ to be his future wife and the next Mrs. Kaiba.

It disgusted him, their shameless parade of coquetry and unabashed flirting. How they tried to catch his eye in low cut dresses and flirtatious giggles that only served to annoy and aggravate. He hated their false innocence and laughable attempts at dignity; were they stupid enough to believe he would really fall for any of that?

 _Pathetic._

He didn't want fanciful lace or useless frills; he hated the powder, rouge, and lipstick these aging debutantes smeared across their faces. He wanted soft linen and simple cotton, the cloud-soft touch of a woman's hand holding his in gentle desperation. Her skin would be cool but soothing, just as her words would be tender but not cloying. He wanted to see hair the color of winter's frost and eyes, the clearest ocean blue. He wanted _her,_ a woman and angel—a paradox of life. He wanted to feel her hand against his cheek as she cradled his head in her lap, her touch the only reprieve from the scorching Egyptian sun.

He could see the sparkling desert sands and cloudless delphinium sky; he could hear shouts and screams and feel the scrape of broken rubble under his back as he laid there on the ground. But everything blurred to nothingness when she came to him, arms open and smile soft. She had crystalline tears that sparkled more brilliantly than any diamond and her hair was softer than the most priceless silk.

She was an enigma—a dream he could not part with. She was the presence that soothed his every waking nightmare and brought him peace when there was none to found elsewhere.

She did not need the satin gowns and jewel encrusted fans that so many women fought over.

She did not need anything but the light in her soul and the love in her eyes.

After all, she was what made this damned and broken world bearable.

* * *

 **happiness**

She's in the shower when he comes home. The house (mansion, really) is still and silent as dusk settles around them, burning the sky a fiery orchid as shadows unfurled from Nyx's hand.

He leaves his suitcase in the downstairs office, takes off his Armani blazer and loosens the cobalt tie that hangs like a noose around his neck. The trek upstairs is an unspoken sign of _please be here_ because even if the world knows Seto Kaiba as indomitable and sure, the ruthless corporate executive ready to demolish anyone—or anything—in his path, Seto Kaiba the man is a mystery even unto himself. For so long he has been relegated to the sidelines, only appearing in brief flashes for Mokuba and no one else.

Until he met her.

Swan-like and graceful with an elegant sweetness that held no pretension—only a striking sort of humility that burned Seto's heart out from underneath his shields and walls. Opening the master suite doors, he hears nothing save the tranquil movements of a body in water—the shifting of a knee rising from beneath warm ocean waves, a woman raising her arms as water droplets trickled down.

He unbuttons the top two buttons of his dress shirt (the bathroom door is open) and leans against the doorframe, hands in his pockets and expression unreadable.

"What are you doing?"

Kisara's arctic silver hair floats around her like moonbeams as she lounges in the bath. The water is crystal clear and Kaiba can see every delicate detail of her beautiful body from where he stands.

She smiles at him—a soft, winter's smile that expresses more warmth than the July sun. "I'm listening to the ocean." She explains.

"What did it say?"

"That you'd be home soon." Kisara holds out her hand. "Come join me."

He crosses his arms. "Maybe later."

"Please?" She asks. "A mermaid always needs a prince."

She says this so sincerely—so sweetly—that Seto can't help but indulge her. "Mermaids usually wait for days on end to find a sailor to drown."

"Well you're not a sailor. You're a prince whose been educated by Cicero, Machiavelli, and Hobbes."

"Then my fine education also prohibits me from being with you. A learned man steers clear of sirens."

"But your education is not yet complete, my lord." She is filled with life and vitality and for all of Seto's cold rationality, he is left enchanted by her mere presence. "You've yet to learn about Locke."

"What've I missed?"

"Well, you know about the schools of philosophical thought, the political mechanizations of generals and kings, and the social covenants of the world but you've forgotten something too." She looks at him. "The pursuit of happiness."

Kaiba stares at her for a brief, piercing moment and then chuckles, shaking his head as he finally comes to her. He kneels down on one knee by the clawfoot bathtub and runs a hand through her damp hair.

"Can't you already see," he murmurs, voice full of wonder, "you are my happiness."

* * *

 **\- Cicero: Roman politician, philosopher, and orator who is considered the master of Latin prose.**

 **\- Niccolò Machiavelli: Italian Renaissance political philosopher who outlined the diplomatic and military responsibilities a ruler had to his constituency.**

 **\- Thomas Hobbes: 17th century English philosopher who established the social contract theory and penned _Leviathan._**

 **\- John Locke: one of the most influential Enlightenment thinkers whose work was the basis of the American Declaration of Independence.**

 **A/N: Feedback welcome :)**


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